


Wishing on a Star

by GretchenSinister



Series: Wishing on a Star AU [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: “What? That doesn’t have anything to do with the original title! There’s no reason for them to have changed it.”“I don’t caaaaare.”“I’m just saying, Garder Quelque Chose Pour la Bonne Bouche worked perfectly well! And what else will have been pointlessly changed, then?”“I’m sure you’ll tell me. But we’re going to watch the movie dubbed because I want to knit.”“But the narrator…”“In the dub it’s Jim Dale. Come on, the movie night was your idea.”
Relationships: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Series: Wishing on a Star AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667509
Kudos: 4
Collections: Blacksand Short Fics





	Wishing on a Star

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr on 1/24/2014.

“What? That doesn’t have anything to do with the original title! There’s no reason for them to have changed it.”

“I don’t caaaaare.”

“I’m just saying, _G_ _arder Quelque Chose Pour la Bonne Bouche_ worked perfectly well! And what else will have been pointlessly changed, then?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me. But we’re going to watch the movie dubbed because I want to knit.”

“But the narrator…”

“In the dub it’s Jim Dale. Come on, the movie night was your idea.”

* * *

Pitch Black, resident of a small neighborhood in a grand city which we shall not name, the opening shot having definitively established the location—to say nothing of the content of this story and the music currently playing behind my voice—had, for many years, followed daily the same routine.

Upon waking in his flat that occupied the third floor of a tall, narrow house, he would shave, shower, brush his teeth, comb his hair, and put on a pair of dark gray boxers, a dark gray undershirt, a pair of black socks, a pair of black trousers, a black shirt, a black belt, a dark gray tie, and a pair of black leather lace-ups. He then made his bed, took his black leather wallet and keys from the small table by the door, placed the wallet in his back left pocket, exited his apartment, locked the door behind him, and placed his keys in his front right pocket.

During winter, this routine varied with the inclusion of a calf-length black wool coat, a scarf in a black and gray houndstooth pattern, and a pair of supple black leather gloves, but today as we observe Pitch Black, it is the first day of the year on which none of these accoutrements are called for.

Indeed, friends, it is _spring_ when our story begins, and I will bet my voice—that is to say, my entire existence—on the fact that you are intelligent enough, and alive enough, to know what that means, as well as compassionate enough towards this tall, narrow man with a beaky nose and oddly long fingers, to smile when you understand.

Now, let us return to Pitch Black, currently making his way down the stairwell of the house that contains his flat. A slight frown has lighted on his face, as usual. When he began living here, the walls were painted a respectable white. Now, as you can see, they are a particularly brilliant green, and, just between us, not too long ago they were vibrant pink, and before that, a turquoise to rival the Mediterranean.

His landlady, you see, loved color, and whenever one of her sisters had a child, she took it as an excuse to paint the hallway, to celebrate the fresh start. In Pitch’s opinion, her sisters had had _far_ too many children over the years. He was certain there were at least a dozen, all girls of various small ages, and all too often underfoot. They loved visiting their aunt, because she always bought them the most charming toys. And she loved buying them toys because it gave her an excuse to visit the most charming toymaker, whom she was hopelessly in love with.

Hopelessly, that is, before I started talking.

Pitch knew none of this, however. All he knew was that the walls hurt his eyes and the children were noisy.

Upon leaving the building (the exterior of which changed more slowly than the interior and therefore always clashed) Pitch Black joined the morning crowd—my, how grim he looks amid the bright colors of spring adorning the other pedestrians and bicyclists, spilling out from window boxes and planters, shining from the stands of greengrocers, and appearing on a few more old-fashioned automobiles than is strictly probable—and walked five blocks to his favorite café.

The Australian who owned it claimed that he served the best hot chocolate in the world, but Pitch Black had never tried it, and he would not do so today. Instead, as always, he ordered one coffee, no sugar, no cream. For if he had not tried the Australian’s hot chocolate, at least he could admit that the man demonstrated some skill in brewing coffee. It had been a great comfort to find an acceptable place to take his morning drink so close to his flat, for Pitch Black was a man of exacting tastes.

As usual, he read the morning paper as he drank his coffee, saving the restaurant reviews for last. Most disappointed him in both style and willingness to forgive certain egregious flaws in service, presentation, and taste, but what captured his attention today was yet another positive review of Alexandre’s. No, not merely positive— _glowing_. Not a single negative review had he yet seen of the establishment, and every point of every star awarded in the paper’s review system stabbed him like a needle. “Delightfully unpretentious”? Would clearly turn out to be plebeian. “Warm atmosphere”? Obviously the staff was unprofessionally familiar. “Exquisite yet accessible cuisine”? No doubt bland and trendy pap to shove in front of tourists.

He simply could not let it stand. He had planned to dine at the dreadfully arrogant Bernard’s that evening, but clearly, Alexandre’s was much more in need of a good knockdown to a lower peg. He trusted his editor would understand. He neatly refolded his newspaper, still shuddering at the last sentence he had read. The reviewer, no doubt addled by some mediocre wine, had hinted that they would expect no less than a certain _particular_ kind of star for Alexandre’s that coming autumn.

Really, it was insupportable. Something had to be done. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he was about to leave the Australian’s café to return to his apartment to complete the next part of his routine when—of _course_ , my friends!—something quite out of the ordinary occurred. Just as he began to cross the street, a troublingly silent scooter whizzed by, forcing him back up onto the curb. At first, he was surprised he hadn’t seen the scooter, given that it was painted an appallingly sunny yellow, then he was angry, as a glance at the traffic signals revealed that the scooter operator had most certainly disregarded a red signal, and then he was alarmed, as the near collision had thrown the scooter operator off balance and they were now toppling to a singularly ungraceful halt against a heavy concrete planter full of daisies.

Now delayed and waiting on a walk signal, Pitch Black watched the scooter operator—a rather small, round man in khakis and a shirt the color of goldenrods—remove his absurd, glittery helmet, to reveal a great deal of blond hair sticking up in all directions. The man steadied the scooter, bent down to check it for damage, and, finally, turned toward Pitch Black.

And this was when the extraordinary thing occurred. For rather than berating Pitch for getting in his way or for nearly causing him to wipe out on the pavement, the small gentleman’s round face broke into a wide, warm, smile, framed by wind-rosed cheeks. He returned his helmet to his head and sent to Pitch—and it _must_ have been towards him, for when he surreptitiously glanced behind him there was no one else in the vicinity, the morning commuter rush being over—a little wave, a salute, and—most baffling of all—a wink, before quietly speeding away.

Such things happened to Pitch rather less often than almost being run down by motor scooters, and the incident troubled him as he returned to his apartment and made a booking for 8:00 pm at Alexandre’s. It refused to leave him as he sat before his typewriter to begin crafting his review of the restaurant of the day before last, and by the time he was marking his first draft, he became resigned to the fact that he would probably never forget it. While typing the second draft, he accepted that such encounters were unlikely to recur, and while marking this second draft he had almost managed to push the incident entirely to the back of his mind. Almost.

Given the upset to his mind, he worked through five drafts instead of his usual four, in order to make sure that the review was absolutely perfect, as he demanded always from himself and the world, though most of the time the world seemed determined not to deliver.

* * *

His meal at Alexandre’s, much to his displeasure, was nothing short of astounding. The reviews had not lied, and if he was to be honest, he would have to admit that perhaps they had even been understated. When had he last let himself be so subsumed in the pleasure of the flaky, buttery crust of a tart, the indulgent, rich, silky salt-sweetness of pate spread thickly on small rounds of toasted bread that miraculously crunched but did not crumble, or the joy of discovering that the chef here was one of those rare few who could make improbable combinations taste as though they were destined to become classics?—ah, how unjustifiably smug he had been upon reading the menu, sneering at the combination of sweet and savory in every dish, the reliance on seasonal fruits that bordered on the unseemly, and the implication that every cut of meat was bound to be smothered in some strange sauce.

Now, as he took his last few bites, accompanied by an obscure, yet superb, wine—this obscurity perhaps the only point he might latch onto as a negative, though he would not, not willing to risk exposing some great gap in his knowledge, nor to become one whose opinion on vintage could be influenced by anything but smell and taste themselves—he felt faintly embarrassed. He had ordered all he did under the assumption, reasonable from past experience, that he would not be finishing the items before him, and yet each of his plates had been quite empty indeed when they were quietly whisked away.

And yet, it had been so _very_ long since he had a good meal…

When his waitress returned, he asked her to pay his compliments to the kitchen and chef. He _would_ be fair, even if his review of this place would task his abilities to the utmost, his practice with words of praise being nearly nonexistent.

The waitress came back from the kitchen with a small dish of lemon-lavender ice cream, each of the three tiny scoops topped with three precisely placed cocoa nibs. “The chef is most grateful for your compliments,” she told him. “He says he has been particularly inspired today.”

“Indeed? Did he say why?” Pitch was feeling positively garrulous tonight. How absolutely strange. At least the ice cream was heavenly, tart and floral.

“Yes, sir. He said he was inspired by a chance encounter with a beauty on his way here—one that, for all their beauty, he saw, still needed what he could do.”

Pitch raised his eyebrows. Perhaps the absurdity of spring in this city was worth something after all. Before he could gainsay himself, he let his unaccustomed chattiness lead him forward, “May I meet this inspired individual?”

The waitress said she would go and see. A few minutes passed, and Pitch finished his ice cream, even allowing himself a smile with closed eyes as he cracked the cocoa nibs between his teeth.

When he opened them again, he saw, to his astonishment, that the figure wearing the chef’s whites and standing beside the waitress was none other than the little man from the morning’s motor scooter incident. (It is difficult for me to determine who looks most surprised at this moment, so I shall let you judge for yourself.)

The chef recovered from his surprise first, and lightly touched the waitress’ arm. Once he had her attention, he rapidly signed to her.

“Sir, may I introduce to you to Alexandre of Alexandre’s. He thanks you for your kind words, and hopes you enjoyed the ice cream as well. Also, you may call him Sandy,” the waitress relayed.

“I’m pleased to meet you too,” Pitch said, disconcerted by the serendipitous occurrence, but still aware enough to notice that the waitress did not sign what he was saying. So this Sandy was mute, not deaf. “I _did_ enjoy the ice cream. In fact, the whole meal was, I must say…absolutely perfect.”

Sandy beamed at him and bowed slightly before returning to the kitchen.

Pitch’s emotions grew into quite the incongruous mixture as he waited for his check. The warm satisfaction of a full belly rested uneasily with the worry that his choice not to provide his name had been noticed and found rude, and, though he would have preferred to deny this, a slight and growing jealousy of whomever else the reckless little chef had nearly run over that morning.

Little did he know that Sandy did not tend to get into more than one accident per day, and still less did he know that, from the moment he called the meal “perfect”, certain plans enlisting the help of one youthful, white-haired ex barista and current sous chef, as well as one Australian expert hot chocolate maker, were about to be set in motion that would disrupt Pitch Black’s routine beyond repair.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and Comments from Tumblr:
> 
> #the idea of Pitch in twee colorful foreign romcom land is making me laugh A LOT#he has no idea what's coming#at least he's going to be eating better#so he doesn't look so starved and pale#oh such hijinks and coincidences#christmas cookie#and#jackrabbit#sideplots#beautiful oversaturated colors#expert food cinematography#this is the kind of movie that you're hungry when you're watching#there's a scene with desserts#that in a text description seems utterly innocuous#but among fans is described as the hottest sex scene ever filmed#btw if this ends up joined with blood red blacksand I'll probably cry
> 
> silkward reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> I don’t know what just happened but it was adorable. REad itomg#so sweet #And Jim dale is the narrator lol
> 
> 21gunsinhand1203 reblogged this from thismightyneed and added:  
> I choked on my soda atthe end trying to say ‘aww’
> 
> plush-anon reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> UNHOLY SCREECHING JESUS CHRIST WOMAN JUST HIT EVERY SWEETNESS KINK ON THE WAY DOWN WHY DONTCHA (It’s all the things I like in a fic please continue this please please please it’s so sweet and it’s literally one of those fics that feels like it’s spoiling the reader with all of the fluff and awkwardness and loveliness and sweet Jesus help me I need more)#foreign romcom au #??? #either way precious all around
> 
> marypsue reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> This is a positively delectable confection you’ve created, and I’m pointing the finger at you if I have to go get ice cream tonight.#lemon ice cream hhhh#it's sweet and whimsical my one weakness#and don't worry even the idea of bringing murder and depravity anywhere near this feels like sacrilege
> 
> thismightyneed reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> I GONNA BE LAYING ON THE FLOOR UNDER MY DESK BECUASE I DON’T EVEN THIS FIC AHHHHHHHH#LEAVE ME HERE TO DIE#I CANT#I CRIYING BECUASE THIS IS JUST#ahhhh#ahhhhhhh#AHHHHHHHH
> 
> bowlingforgerbils said: this was wonderful. I can’t help but imagine the food critic from Ratatouille as well. :)
> 
> whentheoceanmetsky reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> this is so cute i honestly have no idea what to do about it#I HAVE THE MOST EXPLAINABLE URGE TO CUP MY CHEEKS AND COO AT THIS FIC #LIKE ITS A BABY ANIMAL #OH MY GOD #WORDS DO NOT EXPLAIN HOW CHARMING THIS IS


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